


Not just for sissies

by IShouldBeWriting



Category: Marvel (Comics)
Genre: BAMF Women, Deadpool being Deadpool, Deadpool really should know better, Disgusting levels of prejudice, F/F, Mentions of Coppelia, Mentions of Lev Ivanov & the Kirov Ballet, Mentions of Maria Tallchief, Oh and I can kill you with my deadly ballet-fu, Passing pot-shot at Angelina Ballerina, Passing pot-shot at Noel Streatfield, mentions of winter soldier - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-12
Updated: 2015-11-12
Packaged: 2018-05-01 07:37:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,847
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5197661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IShouldBeWriting/pseuds/IShouldBeWriting
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just a little bit of crack - or - what happens when Natasha & Maria prove that Deadpool really should know better than to tease his female colleagues.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not just for sissies

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Flakingnapstich](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Flakingnapstich/gifts).



“What kind of sissy exercise is that?”

Maria finished the series of pique turns she’d been focused on, coming to a graceful stop in fifth position before looking darkly at the intruder.

“Since when does ballet qualify as _sissy_ Mr. Wilson?” Stretching her left foot through the ball of her toes, Maria slid out of her ending pose and stalked across the room to the barre, turning her back deliberately in the hopes that Deadpool would just go away.

“Since it’s _dancing_ , Maria. Little girls prance around doing it in pink dresses,” he sneered

“Last time I checked, Maria Tallchief wasn’t a little girl nor did she go around wearing pink dresses. Besides, unless you’ve tried it yourself, frankly, you don’t even have a frame of reference. How do you know this isn’t some new form of martial arts?” She arched an eyebrow at him in the mirror, one elegant and powerfully muscled calf laying comfortably along the barre.

“You just called it ballet yourself ... _Angelina_.”

“There are plenty of ways in which ballet provides dexterity, flexibility, and speed all of which might be highly useful in the field,” she quipped with lifted chin.

“Admit it, you just like wearing a tutu. All that pink tulle turns you on.”

The skin behind Maria’s ears and on the back of her neck flushed a dark shade of rose. “No, tulle doesn’t ‘turn me on’ as you put it, Mr. Wilson. The likelihood of my ever finding it sexually enticing is virtually zero.” _If that hadn’t been true before then it certainly would have been by the time my father was done with me,_ she thought bitterly. _Not that he ever would have accepted my admitting to there being things which turned me on - much less for me to be something which deviates as far from his oh-so-comfortable norm as lesbianism._

“Virtually, Maria?” he cooed.

“Get. Out.” She snarled. “Before I bust your ass back down to desk duty.”

\----

“Ma’am, there’s something you should see,” one of the young lieutenants on duty muttered quietly from his station on the bridge of the Helicarrier.

Hands folded precisely behind her back, Maria looked over his shoulder. The internal security camera feed running on screen was from one of the gymnasiums. A crowd had gathered and for a moment, Maria couldn’t see what it was that had drawn their attention. But then the action shifted, the circle of onlookers widened quickly, and she could see it. Widow stood alertly to one side of the circle, a small sexy smile playing about the corner of theatrically rouged lips. On the mat at the opposite side of the circle of observers was Deadpool. Neither, as far as she could see, had their signature weapons on them.

“Should I send security, ma’am?”

“No, lieutenant, I’ll handle this.” 

Maria was very proud of herself for keeping the vindictive little smile hidden until she’d entered the lift. She’d held her composure perfectly. Wouldn’t her father have been proud…

\---

“... see, Wade, a jeté is just as effective as one of your karate kicks. But I do find that I have _far_ more control. Wouldn’t you agree?” Natasha asked sweetly as her leg flicked out quickly, catching him behind the knee once again and sending him sprawling. 

“You self-righteous babushka wearing little -” he muttered as he pulled himself back up to his feet again.

“Were you looking for the word bitch, Wade?” Natasha stretched, and stepped neatly out of the way of his next kick. “Oh look. And there’s some of the footwork ballet taught me.” She caught him off balance from the kick and dropped him on his arse again. “Do try a bit harder, would you?”

Standing in the doorway, Maria couldn’t help herself and chuckled quietly before settling back against the wall to continue watching.

“You women and your goddamned little fairies and princesses. I know the truth. You women, _all of you_ , you never give up the tutus and tea parties. I don’t care how old you are, you’re still reading Streatfield and sighing over the Black Stallion. You just think you’re hiding it soooo well under those tight leather pants and uniform jackets. But no, you’re still just a bunch of whiny little babies. You and your fucking nancy prancy dancing around.”

Natasha reached up and grabbed Wade’s hair, forcing his back to bend in a painful arch. 

“Yes. The ballet that little American girls who don’t take it seriously do is just prancing around. But if I put you in a salle with the instructor who taught me ballet - or even the instructor who taught Assistant Director Hill ballet, Wade Winston Wilson, you wouldn’t survive more than twenty minutes.”

Deadpool grimaced, his hands wrapped around Natasha’s as she continued to stretch him until his head and toes were both touching the floor.

“My back does this smoothly, because my instructor did this to me daily. As a warm up. There are other positions we were stretched into; would you like me to demonstrate?”

“Only if they’re a pat-de-duet, baby,” he oozed, mis-pronouncing the word as he continued trying to untangle Natasha’s fingers from his hair.

“On you, Wade. Not with you … the only male dance partner I've ever had is _lost_.”

A desolate veil passed over Natasha’s features, clouds scudding across a clear blue sky, and it took Maria a few moments distracted though before she could figure out to whom the Widow was referring. _Ah, yes, her Soldier, that’d be him,_ Maria gave a tiny subconscious nod as she finally fit the pieces of the puzzle together and was able to dismiss them as irrelevant. 

She bit her lip, contemplating momentarily the mischievous little thought that had come. _What the hell? Why not? He’s an obnoxious little twerp and he’s had it coming to him. Why shouldn’t I help? After all, I am his commanding officer and keeping discipline within the ranks is part of that duty._

Pushing off of the wall, Maria spoke up finally, her strong, authoritative tone carrying across the room even though she hadn’t actually raised her voice.

“I know it’s rather unorthodox, but would a female partner serve for demonstration purposes, Ms. Romanova?”

Natasha blinked, and sized Maria up with a glance. “ _You_ would serve, ma’am.”

“I’ll take that as a complement to the dance master who trained me,” she replied, head down to hide the tiny smile which she couldn’t keep off her face as she toed off her shoes at the edge of the mat. “What exactly did you have in mind?”

“Do you remember enough to dance either of the main roles from Coppelia, with me, Maria?” Natasha asked, quietly enough that most people wouldn’t have been able to overhear her.

Maria smiled. “I got forced to dance Swanilda as a teenager. I was too tall and my shoulders were too broad to fit into the corpse de ballet but the dance master didn’t want to relegate me to one of the boys’ parts.”

“Perfect. Clint; my MP3 player, please?” Natasha fiddled with it. 

Maria raised an eyebrow. “Let me guess. You’ve danced Coppelia?”

“At Vaganova Academy of Ballet, yes. Or rather, it was a very realistic dream, and it came with muscle memory I worked diligently to acquire - and then keep.”

“In which case, I respect your dedication.” Maria’s expression went that odd sort of blank that Natasha had seen periodically on other occasions.   
“Shall we dance, before we draw anymore of the _wrong sort_ of attention, ma’am?”

Maria nodded and stepped forward, slipping smoothly into Natasha’s personal space and stroking her hand carefully down the other woman’s head, giving her plenty of time to object before she wound her fingers into the smooth bloody-red strands and bent the other woman over backwards into the same position she’d had Deadpool in just moments before. 

Arching into the pose with graceful submission, Natasha gave Clint a slow, languorous smile. “Music please?”

She could feel Maria’s body turn firm in preparation for movement. The fingers of the supporting hand at the base of her neck stroked lightly, sending a shiver down her spine. But the moment passed. Suddenly they flying. Maria’s strong hands lifted Natasha back to standing and unwound from her hair. She tossed Natasha outwards with just enough force. Smiling in pleasure, the assassin pirouetted lightly on her toes, arms reaching upward as she capitalized on the momentum before rushing back toward her partner, flinging herself airborne with the blind faith of decades of training. 

They danced, movements flowing and twisting as both women’s bodies fought silently for supremacy. Neither of them noticed when the Director entered the gymnasium and their music stopped. Natasha didn’t notice when Maria went rigid, falling out of the fluidity of movement and into a parade rest posture that was anything but restful. It wasn’t until a hand fell on her forearm - sinewed black fingers standing out in stark contrast to her own creamy skin - that the spell was broken.

“This was the gym, not a performance hall, the last time I checked Ms. Romanova.”

Natasha blinked. “Funny, sir. That’s what Deadpool was implying. May I suggest actually watching the footage of what we were doing with a critical eye, before making yourself a _durak_?”

“Oh, I did, Widow. And while Mr. Wilson may be right in that this isn’t the theater, he’s dead wrong when it comes to dance not having its place in combat training.” 

Natasha blinked again, shooting a glance sideways to see what Maria’s reaction to this would be. But Hill’s face was blank again, her expression shuttered and unreadable. _One of these days I’ll figure out what that means…_ Natasha promised herself.

“So who did you train with, Widow?” Fury asked just a little too casually.

“My memories say that it was Maestro Lev Ivanov, sir. But I know that can’t be reality.”

“Reality or not, Widow, your skill is a credit to his name and that of the Kirov.”

Natasha shook her head ruefully. _Why shouldn’t I be surprised that he of all people would know enough to recognize the Kirov as the modern incarnation of Vaganova? Damned spymasters and their heads full of useless trivia._

“Hit the showers, you two,” Fury nodded his dismissal to Natasha and Maria. “And Deadpool?” [when did Fury get down there? Maybe Maria could say they could both go shower.]

Wade - who had been ghosting quietly toward the edge of the crowd - stopped dead in his tracks.

“Sir?” 

“It looks like you could use a bit more sparring practice. Hey Hawk, why don’t you give him a hand with that?”

Clint grinned widely and unrepentantly. “Hey Nat, can I borrow the MP3 player for a while?”

“Of course, birdbrain.” She tossed it across the room to him. “In fact, give it back to me tomorrow, fully-charged, please.”

“Got better things to do?” He quipped, one eyebrow raised in invitation.

“Much,” she replied, her voice dropping lower as she followed after her commanding officer’s retreating form. _At least, I certainly hope to have better things to do…_


End file.
